America vs. Canada (Or, who is the little brother anyway?)
A few nights ago after work, I entered into one of my exhausted ramblings. While I don't do it as much anymore, it's still not as if that is a rare occurrence. What began as a conversation about Canadian football turned into me referring to Canada as "America's big brother." After being told I had that backwards, I went on to explain that, no, Canada is the mature big brother to America's reckless, free-wheeling little brother and not the other way around.
(And get ready for a giant run-on sentence that will probably make very little sense, but is one that will leave you feeling fulfilled in much the same way as you feel after eating a giant box of donuts at 4 a.m. And they're not good donuts, either. No, no. They're those scary donuts that sit around on the Marsh shelves all day and never get thrown out. The ones that say Krispy Kreme, but deep down, you know they're just bad imitations. And you feel cheated for about five seconds before you realize that you've really had a bad day and you just want to experience the sugary victory parade of some freaking donuts. So that's how this is going to feel.)
So you might say that while Canada (we'll call him Calvin) grew up respecting his parents, eating his vegetables and getting straight A's before being accepted into Brown (Harvard was too pretentious for Calvin's tastes), then turned down a job with a great marketing firm to go into the Peace Corps (or Canada's equivalent) and eventually got married and had six amazing kids who all have names that start with the letter Q, America (we'll call him Ralph) hated his parents in order to gain attention, ran away from home seven times before declaring his independence through court order at 16, then got his GED but dropped out of Indiana State after two-and-a-half years because he got into a dorm brawl with the kids a floor below, but turned his life around and eventually gained a boatload of power at Subway because all his co-workers were too high on crystal meth to tell the difference, but this was before he caught syphilis from a hooker named Annabelle, but he didn't hold it against her because it wasn't her fault, rather it was society, and so it went.
(And get ready for a giant run-on sentence that will probably make very little sense, but is one that will leave you feeling fulfilled in much the same way as you feel after eating a giant box of donuts at 4 a.m. And they're not good donuts, either. No, no. They're those scary donuts that sit around on the Marsh shelves all day and never get thrown out. The ones that say Krispy Kreme, but deep down, you know they're just bad imitations. And you feel cheated for about five seconds before you realize that you've really had a bad day and you just want to experience the sugary victory parade of some freaking donuts. So that's how this is going to feel.)
So you might say that while Canada (we'll call him Calvin) grew up respecting his parents, eating his vegetables and getting straight A's before being accepted into Brown (Harvard was too pretentious for Calvin's tastes), then turned down a job with a great marketing firm to go into the Peace Corps (or Canada's equivalent) and eventually got married and had six amazing kids who all have names that start with the letter Q, America (we'll call him Ralph) hated his parents in order to gain attention, ran away from home seven times before declaring his independence through court order at 16, then got his GED but dropped out of Indiana State after two-and-a-half years because he got into a dorm brawl with the kids a floor below, but turned his life around and eventually gained a boatload of power at Subway because all his co-workers were too high on crystal meth to tell the difference, but this was before he caught syphilis from a hooker named Annabelle, but he didn't hold it against her because it wasn't her fault, rather it was society, and so it went.
posted by Daniel Bradley at 4:18 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home